


sub.Space

by kaiz



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: D/s, M/M, Prose Poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-11-10
Updated: 2003-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:44:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaiz/pseuds/kaiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The formatting on this is a bit wonky. Read the poem <a href="http://squidge.org/~kali/hp/space.html">here</a> to see it formatted correctly.</p>
    </blockquote>





	sub.Space

**Author's Note:**

> The formatting on this is a bit wonky. Read the poem [here](http://squidge.org/~kali/hp/space.html) to see it formatted correctly.

There is a secret place that I know;  
it appears on no map, Unplottable.  
And for each wizard or witch who seeks it,  
only a rare few ever succeed.  


Of those who succeed...well,  
its location always varies.  


So too does the route,  
terrain,  
the Gate,  
by which  
that rare land may be reached.  


Some know it as a place of ice and silence:  
all thoughts quenched,  
mental Absolute Zero attained.  


Others know its seething pits of magma,  
that erupt to spatter  
the unwary,  
unschooled,  
the ill-prepared,  
with molten horrors churned up from the Id itself.  


But I know it as a wide, warm space  
filled to bursting with summer starlight.  
It is that _ah-ha_ moment of perfect clarity, of insight.  
It is the instant that the scale teeters, then balances all at once.  
The moment when your muscles tremble,  
your stomach tightens,  
when you heart lifts  
and your blood sings  
and you simply _know_ that--  


> no matter how great the height

  
\--if you leap, he will always  
ever  
catch you.  


Yes!  


...

Many pilgrims must search for years,  
hands and knees upon broken glass,  
to have those magical coordinates revealed.  


Most seek but never find.  


They are the Fortunate;  
the Curs'ed come within sight of the Gates but for some vital lack,  
are denied entrance.  


I have heard the bitter rantings of both,  
have felt the sting of the envy in their whispers--  


>   
> _Potter's plaything, toy,_  
> _mad bastard_  
> _lying, opportunistic prick,_  
> 

\--in the chilly hallways as I pass by;  
I know.  


(And smile.)  


All because somehow--  


>   
>  through a debt I'd incurred, unwilling, so long ago in my youth,  
> that I fought to discharge, again and again,  
> that I grew _accustomed_ to repaying,  
> habituated to the uneven sensation of _owing,_  
> of lusting for, but never expecting  
> recognition or  
> recompense  
> 

\--I gained what I had never,  


> _would never have_

sought for myself.  


...

He is Lord of this castle now,  
a title that cost him--  


> me?

\--far too much in both blood and in lives lost.  


(Some claim that the victory cost him much more...that it cost him his  
humanity. Ha! They know nothing!)  


But because the glass  


>   
>  that gouged my hands,  
> that tore the skin of my knees  
> for nearly two decades  
> 

was trod upon (mostly) on his behalf,  


I, alone,  


>   
>  despite the countless petty insults I heaped upon him in years  
> gone by  
> 

may call him whatever I wish.  


My Secret Keeper;  
it amuses him, you see, to hear me curse him,  
to speak to him as if I my words reflect reality,  
as if the world as it was--  


>   
>  friends and exams and silly games of Quidditch and Exploding Snap   
> 

  
\--has never gone.  


In _this_ space though,  


>   
>  this Unplottable bit of the world that he so effortlessly--  
> 
>
>> inexplicably
> 
> \--invokes  
> 
>
>> with his hands, or his mouth, or upon occasion, a  
>  lash of magic from his wand  
> 
> 
>   
> 

I make certain that he knows  
that _I_ know  
those days are long gone.  


That, despite what the others say--  


>   
>  despite the blood and bile and the missing bits and pieces  
> that Voldemort flayed from my body and mind  
> 

\--I am not the shattered man kneeling in filth who he set free from  
that torment.  


Not entirely, no.  


So here, I wisely call him: My Lord.  


But he only ever calls me: Snape.  



End file.
